Hidden Treasure

by Jane K. Cleland

  I laughed again. “What was Jack’s answer?”

  “‘Good idea—we’ll do it next year.’”

  “I didn’t know you gardened.”

  “I don’t. Jack does—because Pastor Ted created a gardening monster in Johnny. The little guy just loves it.”

  “That’s really spectacular.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Pastor Ted is exceptional.”

  “Speaking of which … there’s a congregant named Winnie Thornton who works at the church part-time. I need to talk to her without Ted being any the wiser. Please find her for me so the three of us can have a private conversation.”

  Gretchen stood, her emerald eyes alight. “I’m on it.”

  * * *

  Around eleven, I went downstairs to catch up with my staff.

  Gretchen had left for Prescott’s Antiques Barn.

  Sasha was at her desk writing catalogue copy.

  Eric was outside inspecting the asphalt in the parking lot for potholes or cracks.

  Cara was adding the names we’d gathered at the tag sale into our database.

  Fred was at the Hitchens University library, which housed an excellent art and artifact history collection, researching a brass umbrella stand adorned with pineapple fittings.

  Another busy day at Prescott’s.

  Lainy had said that piggybacking wasn’t allowed at Belle Vista. At the time, I’d assumed it was one of those rules that organizations implement at their lawyer’s insistence to offer cover if something goes wrong, not an actual prohibition they enforced. Most people would agree that there’s really no harm in letting someone follow you in if they live or work there or if they’re a relative you’ve seen around. That kind of complacency can lead to disaster. You may not know that the resident’s daughter you’ve seen for years is now persona non grata or that the employee got fired earlier in the day. Now, as I stood at the window staring into the dense forest across the road, I found myself wondering just how easy it would be to sneak into Belle Vista without anyone being the wiser.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I parked near the employee lot, in a corner spot where my car was hidden from casual observation by the laurel hedge, and took the path that led to the garden. Before passing through the gate in the white picket fence, I looked back toward Maudie’s unit. The uniformed police officer was gone. The gate opened with a simple self-closing latch, and just like that, I was in the private garden. Anyone could walk in, day or night. I passed under a matching lattice, thickly twined with purple clematis.

  Twenty feet down, I came to a fork. I followed the branch to the right, the tine closest to the facility. The path ended at a stately fountain, water dripping from a cement finial into a circular bowl. Wicker chairs and chaise longues ranged around the fountain.

  Two older women sat to my left. One started laughing at something the other one said. I chose a chair on the right, near the back door, which bore the same sign I’d seen posted on other outside doors: THIS DOOR IS KEPT LOCKED AT ALL TIMES. PLEASE ENTER THROUGH THE FRONT.

  A few minutes later, the door opened and an elderly man stepped onto the pavers, followed by a young woman.

  They took a few steps toward the fountain.

  “It’s kind of cold, Gramps,” she said. “Are you sure you want to sit outside?”

  He glared at the gray sky. “You’re right. I thought it would have warmed up already. Let’s go to the café.”

  He used his key to open the door, and his granddaughter held it for him. After he passed through, she let it go, and I scooted out of my seat and caught it just before it closed. I held it ajar for a few seconds, letting them get ahead of me, then slipped inside and eased the door closed. I looked out the window built into the top of the door. The two women, partially hidden from view by the fountain, were still chatting and laughing. From what I could tell, they hadn’t noticed me at all. I turned the corner in time to see the grandfather’s leg slip into the elevator.

  Another question answered: It was easy to piggyback into Belle Vista if you knew the lay of the land.

  * * *

  I climbed the nearest flight of stairs and exited through the side door by Maudie’s unit, making my way to my car without seeing anyone. I drove into the guest lot and parked close to Francis Street, then followed the walkway that led to the main entrance. As I advanced closer to the door, I glanced up at the security camera.

  Inside, Lainy was at her desk watching something on her iPad. The Rocky Point Community Theater’s Chicago audition flyer lay next to her, partially covered by a pad of paper.

  I pointed at it. “I love that show. Are you going to try out?”

  “Oh!” she said, embarrassed. She turned her iPad over. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

  “My lawyer, Max Bixby, was in their production of Oklahoma! a couple of years ago. They do such a professional job, you’d never guess it was a local theater company.”

  “There’s a lot of talent in Rocky Point.”

  “Including you, I suspect.”

  She smiled. “Thanks. But I mean people who’ve been in a lot of shows over a lot of years.” She lowered her eyes. “I’ve never even auditioned, except once in school.”

  “Did you get the part?”

  Her eyes fired up. “Yes.” The light dimmed. “I couldn’t accept it, though. I had to work.”

  “Would you like me to contact Max for you? I bet he could give you some pointers.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose. Thanks anyway.”

  “I don’t think it would be an imposition.”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ll pass. I’m not ready.”

  “If you change your mind, give me a call.” I took a business card from my case and handed it over. “Really.”

  She placed the card carefully into a zippered pocket in her handbag. She looked at me straight on, and when she spoke, her tone was solemn. “Thank you.”

  I smiled. “You’re very welcome. Other than audition jitters, how are you holding up?”

  “Okay, I guess. I’m sad. How about you?”

  “The same.” An older woman and an even older man sat in matching club chairs near the café talking in earnest whispers, neither paying any attention to us. I leaned in a little closer. “Has anyone come forward saying they saw Maudie leave the day Celia was killed?”

  “No,” she whispered. “And the police have spoken to everyone—residents, their relatives, staff, even outside vendors.”

  “Maudie mentioned that some of her neighbors sit at their windows to watch the world go by. If one of them saw something suspicious, surely they would have reported it.”

  Lainy laughed. “If Maudie was complaining about busybodies, she was referring to Selma, who lives in one of the units next to Maudie’s. Maudie and Selma are like oil and water. Selma is on every committee and likes to keep track of everyone’s comings and goings. Maudie keeps to herself and resents Selma trying to get her involved. It made Maudie feel like a little kid who needs to be coaxed out of her shyness. Maudie called her ‘bossy boots.’ Selma’s not here, though. She’s been on a long visit to her daughter in Lewiston, about an hour and a half from here, in Maine. She won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What happens if a resident locks herself out of her unit?”

  “It depends. In the independent living section, I call security to open the resident’s door. Other wings have different protocols.”

  “Security … that’s Harry.”

  “Or whoever’s on duty. There’s always someone here.”

  “Who else has a master key?”

  “Mr. Hannigan, of course. And the nurse on duty.”

  “And you?”

  “Well, sure, in case of an emergency.”

  “Where’s it kept?”

  Her eyes flew to the center drawer of her desk, then came back to mine. “I’m not allowed to say.”

  “Out of curiosity, have you checked to be certain the key is where it’s supposed
to be?”

  “This morning. Detective Brownley asked the same thing. It’s there.”

  “Could someone have used it and put it back?”

  “I guess, but only if they know where it is.”

  “So you talked to Detective Brownley. She’s good. Really solid.”

  “She kind of scared me, truth be told. She acted like I was keeping something back.”

  I smiled and leaned in close to whisper, “Were you?”

  Lainy giggled. “Just about Katrina Marlow’s grandson, Mitch. He’s super cute. I finally fessed up.”

  The phone interrupted us. When she finished the call, I set my eyes twinkling and asked in a low voice what she told Detective Brownley about Mitch.

  “Nothing juicy.” She giggled again. “I wish. It’s just that once when Mitch was visiting, a cleaner from Macon’s—that’s our service provider for the common areas. The housekeepers who take care of the individual rooms, they’re employees. Anyway, the cleaner from Macon’s suddenly popped out from the independent living wing. Naturally, I asked her how she got in, and she told me that one of the residents’ relatives happened to be walking by the side door and let her in. From the description, I knew it was Mitch. I told Mitch that very day that he shouldn’t do that, not ever. He promised he wouldn’t, and that was that.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few months ago. Around last Easter.” Lainy lowered her voice another notch. “Detective Brownley asked me how Maudie got along with people. She asked about grudges and personalities and so on. I said there was nothing to tell. Maudie got along with everyone.”

  “Except Selma.”

  “That wasn’t bad blood. That was just Selma being Selma and Maudie refusing to play along. No biggie.”

  “Did you mention it to Detective Brownley?”

  “Yes. She asked for Selma’s daughter’s contact information, which I gave her.” Lainy lowered her voice another notch. “She called then and there and spoke to both Selma and the daughter. The day Celia died, they were at the Ossipee Valley Fair in South Hiram, Maine. Selma didn’t know anything that would help.”

  “No surprise, I guess. I noticed the police officer isn’t stationed outside anymore. When did he leave?”

  “A couple of hours ago. Stacy—you know, Maudie’s niece—just called. She wanted to know if her aunt’s apartment was still under police seal.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, but I think they’re winding up. I mean, it isn’t just that cop who left. None of them have been here for a while now. Mr. Hannigan is raising Cain about the police seal still being on the door. The residents are terribly upset about the murder, and seeing the police tape upsets them even more.”

  “I understand. Does Stacy’s question mean she plans on coming over?”

  “I think so. She said she didn’t want her aunt coming home to such a mess. She’s going to ask Tom to clean everything once she gets the all clear.”

  Before I could share my surprise that Stacy would take it upon herself to organize the cleaning, the phone rang again. I wondered if I’d misjudged Stacy—maybe she wasn’t as self-centered as I’d thought.

  Lainy seemed to be settling in for a long call, and since I was out of questions, I mouthed “Thank you” and left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I leaned against my car and scanned the neighboring houses and buildings.

  Looking left, I spotted a red-light camera at the intersection of Francis and Bradmor Streets, then another at Delany’s, an upscale pub half a block away. There was an additional one to the right, at Francis Street and Victory Boulevard. If the cameras had turned up anything, Wes would have known, and he would have reported it.

  I tucked my phone and car key into my back pockets, tossed my tote bag into my trunk, and crossed the parking lot toward Victory. I turned right, away from Francis, and walked to the next intersection, Zelligan Street. I paused at the corner and did a slow survey. As far as I could tell, none of the old Victorian houses that lined the street were outfitted with security cameras.

  Farther down the block, at another sprawling home, a girl of thirteen or fourteen was directing a younger boy to attach patriotic red, white, and blue bunting to the porch. She stood with her hands on her hips, assessing his work. A swinging chair hung from big hooks screwed into the porch ceiling. An American flag fluttered from an outrigger-style pole attached to one of the porch columns.

  I extracted my phone from my pocket, brought up Wes’s Seacoast Star article where he’d featured Maudie’s Rocky Point Women’s Club headshot, scrolled down until I came to it, and enlarged it so it filled the screen.

  I crossed at the light and walked toward the house, reaching it in time to see the girl nod, setting her ash-blond ponytail swinging.

  “That’s good,” she said to the boy.

  “It looks great!” I said. They both turned, and I smiled. “I’m Josie Prescott, and I’m a complete sucker for bunting. Since it’s after July fourth, I’m guessing there’s a special reason you’re putting it up.”

  The boy bounced from one foot to the other and back again as if he couldn’t contain his excitement. “Our dad’s coming home from Afghanistan! He’s in the army.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful! When do you expect him?”

  “About one,” the girl said. “It was all last minute. Mom went to the airport to pick him up.”

  “I wanted to go, too, but Mom said we had to stay here and decorate.”

  “You’re doing a terrific job.” I held up my phone and showed the girl Maudie’s photo. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have a question. Have you seen this woman?”

  She barely glanced at the photo. “I don’t know.”

  I smiled. “It’s important.” I held the phone closer. “Take another look. Please.”

  She looked at the display, then raised her eyes to my face. “Sorry.”

  “It might have been last week.”

  “Last week?” She glanced at the phone again. “I’m sorry … but really, who can remember this morning, let alone last week?”

  “Try to think … It really is important.”

  She turned to the boy. “Did we do anything last Friday?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You hung out with Bobby.”

  “You went to the beach with Nina.”

  “Right. In the morning. Then I came home and helped Mom put up strawberry jam.” She nodded, smiling. “Then I sat on the porch, reading.” She squinted at the image. “I remember! She waved, and I waved back.”

  I kept my voice calm. “What time was that?”

  “After lunch. I don’t know … maybe around two.”

  “That sounds right. Which way was she heading?”

  “Up Victory.” She pointed in the opposite direction from Belle Vista. “I don’t know where.”

  The boy continued to bounce around, his impatience apparent. “We better get going, Tammy. We’re only half done.”

  “Cory’s right. I need to bake a pie. Dad loves my cherry pie.”

  I smiled. “Yum! Just one more thing—was she alone?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Just walking along?”

  “Yeah … wait! She was pulling a suitcase. Not a suitcase … I don’t know what you’d call it … some kind of bag on wheels.”

  “Like one of those metal carts for groceries?”

  “No, more like a briefcase. My mom is an insurance agent, and she has a wheeling briefcase. That woman’s was larger than Mom’s, though.”

  “A duffel bag?”

  “No, Dad has one of those.”

  “A tote bag.”

  “Sort of, I guess. I don’t know.”

  “Tammy!” Cory called.

  “Sorry,” Tammy said. “I’ve got to go.”

  I thanked her, said goodbye to them both, and walked back to my car. Once inside, I called Ellis. Cathy picked up.

  “He’s in a meeting, Josie. Can I take a message?”

 
I considered trying to explain what I’d learned to Cathy, and rejected the idea. “Tell him I need a minute of his time—it’s urgent. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  * * *

  Ellis met me in the lobby and led me into his private office. We sat at the round guest table by the window. I told him about Tammy and how she’d seen a woman she thought might be Maudie walking by her house last Friday, the day Celia died and Maudie went missing, around two.

  “What’s Tammy’s last name?”

  “I didn’t think to ask. The house is at 452 Victory.”

  He reached behind himself for his cell phone and tapped in a message.

  “I understand that adults are allowed to leave their homes without permission,” I said, “so you can’t just demand Maudie’s credit or debit card records or her phone log, willy-nilly. But at this point, days out, isn’t this a special situation?”

  “If she doesn’t turn up soon, we’ll try to make that case to a judge.” He touched his phone. “In the meantime, I want to get going on this new lead. Thank you for the tip.” He stood. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about. Can you sit tight for a minute?”

  I said I would.

  I’d been in Ellis’s office a bunch of times, and nothing ever changed. The furniture was standard issue, brown veneer meant to look like walnut. The desk was bare except for a phone, an old-fashioned calendar blotter, notebooks and pads of paper, and a Rocky Point Police Department mug filled with pens and pencils. From past visits, I knew his laptop was kept in a drawer under lock and key. In addition to the desk, there was the table I was sitting at, a bookshelf, mostly empty, and a large, locked storage unit. Two Norman Rockwell illustrations hung on the wall.

  “Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Ellis said as he opened the door. He sat across from me and leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but Doug Akins, Celia’s husband, is here, helping us out.”

  “Again? Or still?”

  “Again. I wanted to give him some time with his kids.”